ELEVEN
I don’t spend a lot of time online.
That’s not a judgment of the internet, or social media, or whatever. Not that any of those things cares what I think, but mostly a result of me being the kid of parents who both intensely value my freedom of expression and have intense opinions of their own about what will limit that freedom of expression.
Aka the internet.
Lucy believes, I think I’m getting this right, that the internet is a playpen of unchecked, unregulated, often uninformed opinions and anonymous, often toxic content. She doesn’t trust the internet and thinks other people should also not trust it.
Millie sees the web as some sort of strange board game that she believes is mostly boring and uncool.
I have a Pic-o-gram account where I post art type things, but I only have like fifty followers: an accumulation of people I went to school with, including Danny, and a few of my moms’ artist friends, and my grandma on Millie’s side, who is a bit of a harsh critic and rarely likes things I post.
So I wasn’t all that surprised to wake up on Sunday and find forty smiley faces on my picture. I also wasn’t terribly surprised to see that Greenville had also weighed in, but it was a little. . .much. You can’t unlike a picture on Pic-o-gram. But you can make fun of it and the person who posted it.
Mostly Greenville responded in my comments by telling me I was a) fat or b) ugly or c) some version of a bitch. A few people didn’t get the reference and thought my Saturday Night Fever tribute was a salute. There were a lot of barfing emojis.
DRAGONSRULE9824: Wow this fat bitch needs to do more cardio!
FIGHTFORDRAGONS23: HAHAHA disgusting!!!
DRAGONBBABYGGGIRL: Someone needs some anorexia
I didn’t recognize all the names or profile pics, but pretty much all of the comments, suggesting a lack of originality, had dragon names.
I also noticed that DRAGONBALL88 had the most to say.
DRAGONBALL88: I thought they told you to GO HOME.
I stared at my phone as the barf emojis continued to populate. It felt like someone was wiping their cleats on my stomach.
At about six a.m., Danny (mostmagicalD aka MOSTMAGICALD) popped into the comments.
MOSTMAGICALD: Oh look! A bunch of straight people with no imagination commenting on something they know nothing about! Cool.
DRAGONPINKQUEEN:
MOSTMAGICALD: Oh wow! Vigorous intellectual debate. Greenville seems like tons of fun!
DRAGONPINKQUEEN: Don’t care if you have fun here asshole.
DRAGONBALL88:
MOSTMAGICALD: #tackybitcheswithlotstosay
DRAGONPINKQUEEN: Maybe fuck off?
MOSTMAGICALD: Um do you know your name sounds like dragon vagina?
A few seconds later my phone buzzed.
DANNY
Hey. RU ok? Do you want me to come and slay some dragons for you?
ANNE
No. I’m just sitting here in the middle of nowhere seriously debating getting on a bus back to Petaluma.
DANNY
Then things must REALLY be bad.
Danny lives in Chicago and thinks anywhere that is not Chicago sucks.
I flipped over to Pic-o-gram on my phone and deleted the photo. Which I instantly regretted. Because it’s like they somehow convinced me to erase myself.
FYI, the choice between being yourself and being shit on is not mine alone, but it universally sucks.
So there I was, Sunday morning, drowning in a special formula of self-loathing and regret when Millie knocked on the door.
“Hey,” she said, pointedly walking around my still-unpacked boxes and piles of clothes. “I need you to come with me to a shoot today. Are you free?”
“Today?” I flopped back in my bed, hoping to convey with that one word that I was overwhelmed with life and in no position to be of any help to anyone. “It’s SUNday. And I’m grounded.”
“Yes, it is, and yes, you are, but you will be under my supervision, and you don’t want to do it, so it’s still sort of a punishment.” Millie nodded briskly, taking one last look. “Come on, I’ll buy you a probably subpar breakfast burrito.”
It was pretty subpar. (What is up with Greenville and normally tasty takeout foods?) But it was definitely more satisfying than cold cereal and sitting in my room feeling like crap.
The shoot was for one of Millie’s portraits for her series on aging, at a location just outside Greenville, a little town called Avonlee. Avonlee might be the most adorable place I’ve ever been; it’s a hamlet behind a curtain of trees with tiny little flowers. Driving there was like entering a snow globe of petals.
“So,” Millie asked, flicking on the windshield wipers to brush the floral confetti off the windshield, “should we talk about your photoshoot yesterday?”
“You saw it on my photos?”
“You’re shocked your moms are lurking on your social media? The only reason I use any of those apps is to spy on your life. Plus my mom said I should take a look.” Millie raised an eyebrow. “The comments seemed. . .pretty rough.”
“I mean, it sucks, but it’s fine.” I stared at the petals twisting in the wind. “I’m just getting the feeling. . .like. . .nothing I am or like or do is going to be okay with Greenville.”
Millie took a last bite out of her burrito. “It is entirely possible that Greenville will never get you,” she said. “But at some point, it’s not about them.”
I must have sighed one of those sighs that’s bigger than you mean it to be. Like, a more honest breath than you expect coming out of your body.
“Which is not to say you can’t talk to me and your mom about why it sucks.” Millie’s eyes darted my way. “I mean, that was really a lot of barfing emojis.”
“Rain check,” I said hopefully.
“Always,” Millie said. “Just check in with my assistant, I’m always around.”
Our destination was at the top of a road that wound up a green hill like some sort of fairy tale. At the tippity-top was a pink house that looked like it could open up like a dollhouse. It was the most magical thing I had seen since arriving in Greenville. Crisp white molding flashing in the sun. Little gold-looking triangles perched on each roof peak.
“Damn.”
“Here we are.” Millie shoved on the parking brake. “I think you’re going to like this lady.”
This lady, when she opened the pink door with an emphatic and almost dramatic whoosh, was a tall woman, like even taller than Millie, who looked to be about a hundred, with long silver hair she wore in a braid that trickled down her right shoulder, and two distinct, but not necessarily overly garish, circles of rouge on her cheeks. She looked like a fairy princess if fairy princesses wore long multilayered velvet muumuus. And sandals. And smelled like cookies.
Actually, those all seem like they could be legit fairy princess things.
“Good morning,” the woman called out, in a voice that was almost operatic. “How lovely to finally meet you in person, Millie!”
Millie reached out to shake the woman’s hand, which was covered in layers of silver and gold rings. “Thank you so much for agreeing to take part in this.”
“Well, I’m a fan of your work!” the woman boomed. “Aside from some BBC tonight, this will be the highlight of my day.”
“Anne.” Millie held her hand out in a gesture of introduction. “This is Beverly Lynde.”
L ynde?
My breath caught in my throat. Mrs. Lynde? Like the mother (or aunt, possibly) of the imposing, very judgmental, often disdainful Principal Rachel Lynde? A person who hates me?
I shot Millie a look that read, You brought me to the enemies’ house, on a Sunday?
Millie missed this look, as she was busy getting her bags of equipment through the door.
On cue, this older, possibly cooler Lynde, heretofore known by me as Lynde Senior, rested her watery blue but also very sharp eyes on me. “The Anne. I have heard about you. I have also been anxious to make your acquaintance.”
I stiffened. Spotted. Spied on? Probably.
Of course she knew everything!
I still hadn’t gotten those curtains up!
Was Principal Lynde her source? I searched her face.
Play it cool, Anne, I told myself.
“Okay,” I sort of shouted. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
Lynde Senior smiled, revealing a gold canine tooth. “No need to shout, dear. The knees are out, but the ears work fine.”
“Sorry.”
She winked. “Goodness, I love your hair,” she said. “And that sweater! What a fascinating color story! Please come in.”
Okay, unexpected points to Beverly because I was in fact wearing a color story consisting of a neon-yellow sweater, pink jeans, and green Crocs, which with my orange hair constructed a story I had mentally titled “Citrus Fantasy.” Looking at Beverly Lynde some more, I realized her outfit also told a color story, which I would title “Ancient Moonlight Velvet Witch Lullaby.”
I stepped over the threshold into the world of Beverly Lynde. Which was full, full of stuff. Every wall was covered in paintings and portraits of all different styles. There were black-and-white photographs of austere-looking men and a few of some less-than-austere-looking men. And many many photographs of various pretty sexy-looking Beverlys.
This was not her first photoshoot.
There were walls and walls of bookshelves and books stacked on every surface and on almost every step of the white winding double staircase that led up from the front hall. Every piece of furniture looked less like a piece of furniture and more like a houseguest, dressed in some sort of fabric, scarf, or sweater. Chairs lolled in the hallways and couches cut off doorways. Lynde led us through, weaving adeptly and moving at a solid clip despite her knees.
“Don’t excuse the mess,” she joked as she directed us through the maze of stuff, her robes billowing. “It’s part of my charm.”
She pointed at a back room, a sort of sunroom full of plants and even more books.
“I think,” she mused, “the light will be best in here.”
There was a giant blue-and-yellow stuffed bird perched on a large branch that stretched across the room. Its left wing was spread out to reveal delicate layers of various shades of blue feathers. Its eyes looked like they were made of some sort of ancient precious jewel.
“Just ignore him.” Lynde Senior waved at the bird dismissively. “That’s Waldo. His spirit is strong but not destructive.”
“Got it.” Millie nodded. “Anne, gimme a hand?”
Millie is a fan of a no-fuss-no-muss approach to photography. We quickly secured a chair, setting it just in front of Waldo, and set up the tripod for the camera. Lynde Senior chatted away about the weather and the art of photography as she carted in snacks on tiny plates, perching them on various books.
Beverly was a fan of art, period. She liked mixed medium work. But adored portraits. She loved textile work. And sculpture so long as it wasn’t too big on itself. She wanted to be delighted, she said, and sometimes even challenged.
Once there was a snack balancing on every surface, Lynde Senior took her seat and Millie got behind the camera.
“This is perfect,” Millie said. “Just relax and talk to Anne; I don’t want you too stiff.”
“Not yet, at least.” Lynde Senior winked.
!!!
“Well, then. Where on earth did you get that lovely sweater, Anne?” Beverly Lynde clapped her hands together.
“It’s vintage.” I held up the belled sleeves. “I got it at a place in Petaluma, where we used to live.”
Millie’s camera clicked.
“It’s gorgeous. Bright colors don’t appeal to my pallor but I adore them.” Lynde Senior turned her head slightly. “Now, Anne, how are you finding Greenville? You’ve only just arrived, correct? A few weeks? How does it measure up?”
“Oh, um.” I snatched a cookie off the plate. “It’s great. I love it here.”
I was mid-munch when Beverly Lynde, I shit you not, snorted. Millie chuckled, snapping another picture.
“What’s so funny?” I wiped the crumbs off my sweater.
“My dear girl. Greenville, do not get me wrong, is a lovely, beautiful place. Picturesque even.” She adjusted her layers. “But it is a well-known fact that its residents have very old, well-worn sticks up their butts!”
I shock-coughed so hard a little piece of cookie actually shot out of my nose.
“Well, then.” Millie chuckled as she rummaged in her bag for a different lens.
“Greenville is not good with the new on any level, so I am hard pressed to imagine them being receptive to a multidimensional daisy like yourself,” Lynde Senior finished, adjusting her robes.
Mental note: I am a multidimensional daisy.
“I mean,” I said, cautious, “I would say they seem a little. . .like. . .traditional. Here.”
Lynde Senior, aka My Favorite Lynde, reached forward and snatched a cookie off a nearby plate, popping it into her mouth whole. “My family has been here for generations, my girl, so I say this from experience. Greenville is a city that has always rewarded and housed the small-minded.”
My Favorite Lynde adjusted in her seat, tossing her braid over her shoulder. “I was the first woman in my family, and the town, to practice law and to choose a career over marriage. And what did they do? In light of my successes?”
I shook my head, legitimately curious to hear what she was going to say next.
She tossed her hands up in the air. “Pandemonium! They lost their buttons! They set me aside and adrift. As though I had set the town on fire for refusing to be another stone in the road.”
Millie snapped in her new lens, but not before tossing a meaningful look my way.
“Yeah, I can see that happening,” I responded quietly.
“And do you know what I did when they showed me their spots?” Lynde leaned forward, her eyes twinkling.
“You didn’t care?”
“Well, I did care at first,” Lynde said, swiftly snatching yet another cookie, “but then I had a lot of sex and made a lot of money and I traveled the big and beautiful world. . .and then I didn’t care so much.”
This time it was Millie’s turn to choke on a cookie.
“Well.” Millie coughed. “Wise words if ever I heard them.”
“I’m taking notes,” I told her.
“You do that, my dear, and you’ll be better for it.” Lynde took a moment to give me another wink. I wanted to vault over the two couches between me and her and throw my arms around her.
Millie snapped a final picture. “I think we have it, Beverly.”
“Call me Bev.” Bev stretched. “All my friends do.”
Just then there was the soft crackle and pop of tires over gravel.
“Ah, dear.” Bev raised a finger. “That will be my less enjoyable appointment for the day,” she grumbled.
“Do you need us to clear out?” Millie asked, reaching for her bag.
“Heavens no! You may take your time,” Bev sighed, “but you’ll likely want to leave when you see who my next guest is.”
As we hustled our gear out of the house, I got her meaning. There in the driveway was the Other Lynde, aka My Least Favorite Lynde, aka The Lynde who didn’t think I was a multidimensional daisy. Or didn’t like daisies. Or both.
Principal Lynde was wearing what I guessed were her “Sunday Clothes,” which consisted of a plain T-shirt (white. Who’d she get that idea from?) and a pair of let’s call them gray pants? This version of Principal Lynde was a little less intimidating, but still, I got a solid flood of back sweat as her gaze met mine.
Principal Lynde gave Millie a sharp nod. “Mrs. Shirley.”
“It’s just Millie, thanks,” Millie said, popping open the trunk. “Principal Lynde.”
Principal Lynde’s narrow gaze settled on me. “Miss Shirley.” Her voice sliced through the air. “I see we have abandoned the decorum of appearance you briefly displayed at school not long ago. Where did that girl who knew how to conduct herself in public go? I wonder.”
Sweat. Dripping. Down my back. “Uh. Hello, Principal Lynde. Good Sunday to you.”
“Good gracious, Rachel.” Bev floated toward us. “These people are my guests and I’ll thank you for keeping your fashion tastes to yourself. Especially given the circumstances of you having no ta ste.”
A small fire flared in Principal Lynde’s eyes. “I beg your pardon, Auntie.”
“You heard me.” Bev’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t have anything nice to say to my very special guests, you can keep your trap shut. Now what was it you came here for?”
BATTLE OF THE LYNDES! (Guess whose side I was on?)
It was over pretty quickly, actually, as Principal Lynde huffed past Bev and into the house. “I’m just here to pick up some files from Uncle Mackenzie’s office, Auntie. I’ll be gone in a minute.”
Millie and I hopped in the car, which I was expecting to be the end of it, but as Millie shoved her keys in the ignition, there was a tap on the glass next to my head. Bev waited patiently for me to roll down the window.
“I can tell you’re a smart bird,” she said. “Because I’m a smart bird, too.”
Noting that the other bird in this scenario was stuffed and in her sunroom.
“Well. Thanks.”
“Don’t let them get you down.” She waggled a finger at me. “This town is too small to push you down a hill.”
And with that she flicked her braid over her shoulder and headed into the house on wings of velvet.
“Well,” Millie said, backing out of the driveway. “I thought that would be quite something.”
“And it was,” I finished, breathless.
Look. I’m not saying I think it was the best pep talk ever. What hill and how does a town as a collective push you down said hill? Hard to say. But I thought a lot about Beverly after that meeting. So much that later that night I dreamed I was a giant green bird with gray feathers on its head, flying over Greenville.
The next day, inspired by Beverly, I wore a velvet batwing gold-and-pink-tie-dyed poncho top that I like to imagine once belonged to a magician. Or an art teacher. Paired with my pink jeans now cut into shorts and my gold sparkly high-heeled boots that I had sparkled myself.
I left a trail of glitter from the front door of the school to homeroom. Which Berry said looked like some sort of Wizard of Oz yellow glitter road.
I caught the looks of Tanner and Sarah as I took my seat in English class first period, but I didn’t let them bother me.
At the end of class, Mr. Davidson, in a powder-blue vest, held up a crisp new sign-up sheet for the school play auditions.
“Not sure what happened to the last list,” he said, surveying the crowd for signs of guilt. “But this new one is going up now. If anyone would like to sign up for auditions, please put your name here by the end of the day.”
Berry snuck a look at me from behind her textbook.
I raised my hand. “I can put it up in the hall,” I offered.
Mr. Davidson handed me the sheet with a flourish. “Thank you, Anne.”
The bell rang just as I was pressing the last piece of tape onto the wall. I wrote my name on the top line.
“So, I don’t GET it.” Sarah stepped up behind me, her whole face a pinch. “You think because you dress like a freak you can, like, act or something?”
I swiveled on my glittery heel. “What did you say?”
“I SAID”—Sarah looked around, maybe not expecting a request for a clarification—“you think just because you dress like a freak you can act?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said. “Won’t we?” I held out my pen. “You signing up, too?”
Gilly and Tanner stepped into the hallway. Tanner walked up next to Sarah while Gilly leaned on a locker, looking in the other direction.
Sarah stared at my pen like it was a worm. “Uh, no. Thanks.”
“New girl bothering you?” Tanner asked, putting a protective arm around Sarah’s shoulder.
“Yes.” Sarah pouted. “She IS.”
My heart started beating in my throat.
I am a smart bird, I told myself. I am multidimensi onal.
“You know”—I twirled my pen around my thumb—“freaks invented theater. It was like the weirdest job you could have, like in England when Shakespeare was around, it was the weird job. And only freaks could do it. The grand history of theater is not a history of normal people. It’s of people who are willing to take ri sks.”
Berry emerged from class.
“See you at auditions.” I waved.
Greenville didn’t have room for me? I would make room.
Too small to push me down a hill? Was that what she said?
Like maybe it was about seeing your own weight and size, to see how much bigger you are than someone else’s small ideas.
“All good?” Berry asked, leaning into me as we exited, past Gilly, who glowered at me from lowered lids.
“All good,” I said.
After a celebratory high five, Berry split for band practice, and I skipped all the way home from school.
All the way home, I kept having this feeling, which I get from time to time. A feeling like a sparkly balloon in my chest. A slightly nervous but also good feeling.
Like something was about to happen.